. . . but even decapitated it continued its charge, its frenzied momentum throwing it headlong towards the wagon. William rolled away just as one armoured foot crashed down mere inches from his skull, before the hulk ploughed straight into the cannon. The wagon was lifted into the air, before it rolled over completely, spilling the three monks inside. Brother Ricardo landed winded, as did Brother Paldini, who was thrown a few yards clear. but Brother Adams – Vittore’s trusted second in command – landed under the wagon. The left rear wheel slammed down on his chest, crushing his ribcage and flattening his mid-section. As Brother Ricardo fell he saw only briefly the jet of dark fluid spraying from Adams across the deck of the wagon as the dwarf-cannon tumbled out, followed by the powder and shot.
The headless daemon, wreathed in flames and smoke, lost cohesion and slumped upon the wreckage, its dead weight smashing the side of the wagon.
Brother Ricardo lay only a few feet from the burning mess of bone and flesh, watching it with utter disbelief, while Brother Paldini got up groggily. Punch-drunk, he staggered over to get a closer look at the burning corpse, grinning with triumph.
‘We killed it!’ he yelled. ‘It’s dead! It’s dead!’
Several monks broke from the flanks and cautiously approached for a closer look. William too stared up and began laughing. The plan had been poorly conceived but it had worked. It had . . .
‘Wait!’ Peruzo shouted and waved to the monks. ‘It’s still on fire! The powder! The . . .!’
There was a sudden explosion as the flaming torso of the daemon ignited the first gunpowder keg. The blast tore apart the midsection of the wagon; flying splinters killed Paldini instantly.
Then the next keg exploded as Brother Jacque made to escape. He was engulfed and his flaming body hurled several yards away.
William was thrown too, the blast wave lifting him from his knees to send him sprawling across the sand. Bright light filled his vision. He lay there prostrate and deafened as the oasis around him silently burned.
VI
Baron Horia saw the glowing cloud erupt over the oasis, the light of the explosion reflecting against his pale skin. At that moment the Scarimadaen in his palm began to tremble and shake violently.
The daemon had finally been destroyed by the men of the Church. It was time to leave.
VII
Brother Casper, a sightless giant of a man, stood aloof from the other monks resting by the cages. He looked out into the dark with cauterized eyes; the wounds were raw but a healing crust had coated them. He could hear the pop of muskets in the dark, the crash of battle rupturing the night.
Brother Samuele sat on the edge of the cage, his torn leg causing him pain. ‘Hey Casper . . .’ he called. ‘What are you doing, brother?’
Waiting,’ Casper grunted back.
Of the other monks, Stefano, Angelo and Goffredo were in bad shape, with Angelo running a high fever. Brother Tore sat quietly to Samuele’s right, his face disfigured by torture with a flaming brand.
‘The battle won’t come to us, my brothers,’ Samuele assured them.
‘The captain will prevail,’ Tore said hopefully. ‘He’ll do right by us all, mark these words.’
‘Angelo is worsening,’ Stefano whispered, the brother as white as the moon. He held his stomach and all had noted the dark stain on his side. Stefano carried his injury well, but was in poor shape himself.
Tore got up and trudged over, bending down to pull open Angelo’s shirt. The monk’s body was marbled with bruises and other wounds. There were burn marks, shallow cuts and other signs of torture. The brother had been particularly stubborn, and had been made to suffer following Gregory’s interrogation and murder at the hands of the militia.
Samuele looked on in despair.
‘He won’t survive much longer, Samuele,’ Tore said.
‘He must,’ Samuele implored.
Suddenly, the camp was lit by a tremendous explosion followed by a thunderous wave of sound that drove Casper to retreat.
‘Oh my . . .’ Brother Samuele murmured and limped from the cage. He searched the sky and saw a ball of fire blossom across it. Then came another light, a bright glare of cyan that screamed as it fled the camp, twisting and arcing across the sky into oblivion.
Samuele punched the air. ‘I told you! Did I not?!The daemon is slain!’ he shouted and began to dance about haphazardly on his sounder leg.
Casper beat the air blindly, elated that some victory had come.
Above them, the vampyre wheeled, catching the night with all the skill of a swallow on the uplift. She too had seen the daemon destroyed, and it angered her. Below, The wounded men of the Church celebrated and all she could think of was her fallen comrades in the Valley of Fire.
And it angered her so . . .
Filled with rage and blood lust, she plummeted down, shrieking like a banshee.
Brother Casper heard her coming and fell to his knees, feeling the air part near his ear with a snick-snick sound. Brother Samuele tried to flee, but his leg failed him. The vampyre swooped to his left, flung out her blades and cut open the monk’s side. Crying out, Samuele fell to the floor.
Brother Tore made to leap up from Brother Angelo, but his wounds caused him to double over in agony and he too fell to his knees as the vampyre came about for another pass on Samuele, who was struggling in the sand, blood pouring out of the wound.
‘Samuele! Samuele!’ Tore shouted desperately.
Brother Casper got to his feet. ‘Where is he?!’ he yelled back.
‘Directly behind you . . .’ Tore replied, ‘. . . three yards away .’
The vampyre came out of the darkness and landed suddenly, the momentum causing her to skip off the sandy floor like a stone off water, before she found her footing and broke into a run that was impossibly fast. She reached Samuele as he made to rise again. The monks let out a unified cry of warning but Samuele was in no state to defend himself. She took him by the neck, pulled him up so that he could stare with terror into her eyes, before she laughed and ripped him from collar to navel, letting the blood gush over her.
Casper heard Samuele die and smelt the stench of death taint the air around him. Sniffing the air like a sightless dog, he put his head down and heaved himself to the right, his large hands outstretched; his face contorted in fury.
The vampyre had not seen Casper lurch towards her as she savoured the killing, but on seeing him now, merely feet away, she almost retreated before she realized the monk was blind. Laughing in anticipation of the game in prospect, she skipped over Casper, treading the air to land behind the brother and gash open his back with a fluid movement of her blades. Casper let out a groan, but the giant responded by turning as quickly as his bulk would allow . His big hands grappled in the air, but she ducked playfully and cut off his thumb.
Howling with pain, Casper would not stop as he reached for her again and again, guided by her mocking and laughter.
‘You’re playing with me!’ Ileana cackled. ‘I can play too!’ She ducked and lifted into the air, gracefully kicking her right foot out. Her boot tip connected with Casper’s chin and the giant stumbled back.
Brother Tore tried desperately to find something to defend Casper with, but there were no weapons at all. He gestured to Stefano to conceal the two other monks in shadow, then had to look on helplessly as Casper was wounded time and time again.
Ileana brought out both blades and looked over Casper’s shoulder to To re. ‘Your friends are begging to be murdered,’ She said, and gestured to the monks behind him, hoping the monk would understand. ‘I will gladly offer this service.’
‘No!’ Brother Casper shouted and he swung his hands towards her.
She dodged his great paw, and then thrust both blades into his chest. The Bear of Corsica, as he was known to all in the Order, bayed in agony, but his strength remained. Thinking she had dealt the death blow, Ileana did not reckon on the monk’s long reach. She only realized her complacency when by chance he lurched forward
and took hold of her in a hug of iron. She could not move, her arms locked to her sides.
Screaming with rage, and then with pain, Ileana struggled. Casper clung on as long as he could, hoping to snap her spine, or at least delay her for the brothers to escape. But the burly monk grew weaker with every breath.
‘Casper!’
‘Must hold on . . .’ he began to murmur, blood filling his mouth.
‘Casper!’ came the voice again. He recognized Lieutenant Peruzo.
The vampyre began to shriek again, squirming in his grasp.
‘Do it, Lieutenant!’ Casper growled through the blood that was filling his throat.
Peruzo hesitated.
‘Now, he growled as she began to spin loose.
Peruzo thrust his sword into her chest. The blade ran straight through her and impaled Brother Casper, who let out a last breath. The two bodies tottered for a moment, and then Casper fell forward, trapping the vampyre under his weight.
Peruzo stood back with terrible comprehension. Looking down at his handiwork, he fell silent, not noticing William at his side, his face black as night from soot. There was a long gash on William’s forehead and blood was running freely down one cheek.
‘Bind her!’ William shouted furiously.
We should kill her,’ Brother Tore cried back.
William shook his head. ‘No, we need her alive. Bind her, Peruzo. We’ll stake her out to the east, by God.’
VIII
Brothers Jericho and King returned to the cages as William surveyed the scene of battle.
‘The enemy have fled,’ Jericho told him. He gestured to the silence that was descending on the oasis. ‘If the vampyres are still out there, then they’re waiting.’
Peruzo was leaning on one cage, exhausted and saddened by their losses. As William approached, he did not look up.
We’re victorious,’ William murmured sadly.
‘Gregory Paldini, Adams, Jacque, Samuele and Casper . . .’ Peruzo said, recording the men who had perished. ‘And six are wounded. We are not victors, Captain.’
William patted Peruzo on the shoulder. ‘We could have lost many more,’ he suggested.
Peruzo would not reply The death of Casper was weighing heavily on him. He had heard the monk’s last breath, a breath he himself had taken from him. There hadn’t been a choice, but Peruzo had never killed a brother before, even in pity.
‘Is the vampyre staked out?’ William asked.
‘She is,’ Peruzo replied.
‘She?’
‘A female, Captain.’
William hesitated. This must be the vampyre they had faced outside Babel’s.
‘I’ve seen that look before,’ Peruzo remarked. ‘She is still a vampyre. She murdered Samuele and tortured Casper.’
‘I know, I know,’ William agreed quickly, though the idea of staking out a woman still repelled him.
Peruzo got to his feet and straightened his jacket. ‘I have no qualms about killing her, Captain. Let me deal with it.’
‘No,’ William said. ‘I am the senior officer. I must question her. Just make sure Thomas and the one called Khalifa are there to see it.’
‘I understand what you say, William, but what makes you think they won’t attack again?’ Thomas asked as William led him to the edge of the oasis, the man called Khalifa following at a distance with several armed guards. Dawn was an hour away.
‘They won’t . Not even to rescue their friend here,’ William replied. ‘They are running out of time.’
‘Yes, yes, you have said this before – “Sunlight destroys them.” They need shelter . . .’ Thomas repeated.
‘This is our only chance to gather information,’ William added. ‘For a soldier it’s a rule: Know your enemy. We have to discover what we are facing – numbers, weapons, anything.’
William spoke over his shoulder as they marched up a dune to where some monks were gathered, silhouetted against the dawning sky.
‘And torturing this animal will give you that information?’ Thomas said, screwing up his nose in disgust.
William tried to hide his own distaste. ‘You wanted vengeance, d idn’t you? She destroyed your whole entourage. all your servants, your goods . . .’
‘She?’ Thomas said and stopped in his tracks. ‘A woman?’
William couldn’t look Thomas in the eyes. ‘We ’re not torturing her, Thomas. We just need information.’
Peruzo stood at the crest of the dune and waved down to William with his sword. They came up, but as they neared they could hear the cries of the creature clear enough.
‘Bastards! Swine! Sons of whores, all! You will die! You WILL ALL DIE!’
Thomas glanced at William in dismay. ‘Her voice . . .’ he said. ‘It’s terrible.’
‘Aye,’ William replied quietly.
Thomas shivered and faltered. ‘I’m not sure I can do this, Captain Saxon.’
The man known as Khalifa looked equally pale. He had lost many men to these monsters, yet the sound of her shrieks drained his resolve. William turned to them and told Thomas to translate his words.
‘Tell him this evil creature killed his men, as she did the people of Babel. It was she who caused the death of his commander, she who would gladly have murdered the militia.’
Thomas paused, his mind racing.
‘Tell him, please,’ William pressed.
Thomas considered altering the words, but then what was the use? What was done was now done. Ileana had been caught.
Thomas translated and Khalifa nodded, his anger overriding the desire to leave.
They climbed to the top of the dune and looked out. At the foot, surrounded by campfires, was the vampyre, tied on the sand with great chains and rocks, staked out and spreadeagled. She writhed and pulled, and each time it seemed she might break free, a monk would strike the creature across the leg or arm, the wound deep enough to weaken the vampyre as she tried to mend herself.
‘Must they?’ Thomas said.
‘Yes,’ William insisted. ‘She would break free if she were left alone.’
‘It is torture,’ the Englishman murmured.
‘It is necessity,’ William replied sadly, looking away. ‘By wounding it, we sap its strength. But the creature can heal itself quickly, so we must deliver wounds at regular intervals to keep it from escaping.’
‘She is in agony,’ Thomas murmured.
‘It is not a woman,’ William reminded him. ‘We cannot show it pity. It would have shown us none.’
The female vampyre arched her back and whimpered. She turned her head to look behind her and found William standing there, the other two men just out of view. She shouted something in her old tongue, and then in Latin, which William understood.
‘Please! Please release me! I will never harm any of you again. Please, it hurts! It hurts so much! I don’t want to die like this . . .’
William flinched at the cries for mercy, but looked away, hardening his resolve.
‘Surely this is wrong,’ Thomas said.
‘It must be done,’ William replied, but his own determination was weakening. ‘Its friends are out there somewhere, and they will attack if we show weakness. If they do, we will be ready for them.’
‘And if they don’t, what then?’
‘Then we kill it,’ William replied.
‘No further torture?’ Thomas asked.
‘None.’
‘Then tell me when it’s done, Captain. I want no part of this.’ The Englishman turned away and walked back to the camp, leaving William to stare after him. He could understand pity for a woman, but not a vampyre. but then William understood the vampyres far better than Thomas Richmond ever could. Their words were lies, sympathy was weakness. You must deal with them as you would any dangerous animal.
Even a woman.
‘Captain?’ William turned away from the writhing creature and walked over to where his lieutenant stood with Jericho and several brothers. ‘Dawn comes quickly here,’ Peruzo said,
and gestured to the horizon. The thin glow of light was now advancing steadily. The sun would reach them sooner than expected.
The vampyre had realized this as well.
‘Please!’ she squirmed. ‘Please don’t do this!’
William tried to ignore her. ‘Has it said anything about our enemy’s strength?’
Peruzo shook his head. ‘It only babbles. Nothing we can use.’
William nodded.
‘Why did the merchant leave?’ Peruzo asked curiously.
‘Doesn’t like dirty work,’ William said and knelt down by the vampyre. He regarded the creature, her appearance, her stench, the way her eyes crackled with light but were growing dimmer.
‘Do you understand what will happen to you?’ he said in Latin.
The vampyre arched her back and looked back with a mixture of hatred and pain. ‘Shit-eater!’ she screamed at William.
‘Is that a No?’ William asked politely. ‘Et si nous parlons français?’
The vampyre stared at William and nodded slowly.
It wasn’t often William spoke French, and when he did it was only privately to Adriana. So the conversation with the vampyre came out stilted and wrong to his ear, perhaps because he was no longer using French for affection; it was difficult to sound threatening.
‘You understand me now?’ he said. ‘No more games. I want answers. Where are your friends?’
‘I was born in Paris,’ the vampyre replied, disregarding the question completely. ‘I was a girl then. I lived in the lanes with my family by the river. I was happy then . . . So happy.’
William tried to ignore the sentiments. Tried to ignore how human and fragile she . . . it . . . sounded. ‘I don’t care for your life story. Where are the other vampyres?’ he demanded.
The vampyre wept and began writhing again. ‘Release me! Release me now!’ she implored. ‘The sun is coming! The sun!’
William nodded. ‘Yes, the sun. I see you are afraid of it. Some of your kind have a particular weakness for the sun. I hear it burns you. Your skin. Your flesh. Your bones, even?’
The female vampyre stopped struggling and looked back at William, tears smudging her cheeks. ‘It is our curse.’
The Hoard of Mhorrer Page 28